


Unfinished

by ladydirewolf1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:59:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5267102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydirewolf1/pseuds/ladydirewolf1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The car came to a light, green fading to yellow—the cab lurched forward, not soon enough—then a dark, electronic red against the darkening sky. “John…Sherlock’s dead.”<br/>The hours after The Reichenbach Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfinished

            John stared at the coffee cup in his hand. Two sugars and milk. It was disgusting. He never took his coffee like this.

            “John?” Lestrade’s voice was quiet, just barely shaking.

            “Yes?”

            “What happened after he jumped?”

            John squeezed his fist and set the cup down. It had gone cold, anyway. “After who jumped?”

            Lestrade released a sigh and slid off the edge of his desk to sit in the chair beside John. He shifted slightly and gave John a searching look. “Sherlock, John. After _Sherlock_ jumped.”

            _Rain—cellphone—pavement—blood—no, no, that did not happen. No._ “I haven’t got a clue what you’re going on about.” John opened his fist and stared at his palm. White, ashy. Like a ghost’s. _That’s odd._ He felt fine. Better than fine, actually. Like he was in a dream, floating and light. Content. _Very odd. Ghosts only exist in nightmares._

            “John—”

            “Take me home.”

            “You know we can’t just—”

            “Now. Take me home. To Baker Street.”

            Lestrade raised his eyes to someone behind them and gave a slight nod. Footsteps, soft on the carpet, padded away. John didn’t bother to see who was there. Probably Sally. She liked to hang around the three of them on cases.

            Five minutes later—Lestrade didn’t seem like talking, so John amused himself by counting the number of telephone rings before the secretary picked up—the footsteps came back.

            “Cab’s here, Greg. Waiting outside.” _Ah, so it was Sally. Just can’t get enough of this stuff._ John rose and followed Lestrade from the room, giving Sally a polite smile as he passed. She looked alarmed, strangely enough.

            The two of them floated down the grey hallways, past the screaming telephones, out the white doors. Several people stared, two tried to get Lestrade’s attention (which he ignored), and one even reached out and gave John a pat on the arm.

            “The place is a mess today,” John mused as they stepped into an elevator. The metal doors—shining brilliantly from the winter light streaming through a nearby window—snapped shut.

            “Mhm?” said Lestrade, jamming in the _Ground Level_ button till it burned crimson against the grey.

            “Like someone’s gone and popped off or something.”

            The door slid open. “Something like that,” muttered Lestrade, not meeting John’s eyes.

            They stepped out, crossed the lobby, and emerged outside. John raised a hand to his eyes, blinking. Shapes, dark in their coats, flitted by on the pavement. Edges blurred in the sunlight—the kind of light, grey and blinding, that appears after a winter rain. One of the shapes, bundled in a grotesque, cheerful red bumped past, brushing John’s shoulder with its own.

            “John, cab’s waiting.”

            John peeled his eyes away from the figure in red, who had drifted further down the busy sidewalk. “Right. Yes.” He slid in to the black cab’s open door. The inside smelled pleasantly of nicotine.

            Lestrade made his way to the other side and climbed into the other seat. John opened his lips to protest, but Lestrade beat him to it.

            “I’m not leaving you.” He tapped the back of the front seat. “Baker Street. Now.”

            John furrowed his brow and peered out the window. The brightness was dimmer behind the cab’s grimy window, the light grey, quiet, muddled. The shape in red (John could now tell it was a woman) had paused at the street’s corner. She was staring at the cab. John strained against the seatbelt as the cab pulled away, wondering why she had stopped. As the car drove further and further away, the woman in red got smaller and smaller until she was but a fleck of crimson on the dirty window pane.

            They were passing through central London when Lestrade finally spoke.

            “John, you know I can’t leave you there by yourself tonight.”

            “What?” John chuckled. “What the hell are you talking about?”

            Lestrade stared at him like they’d never met before. “I’ll set you up in a hotel, or maybe in someone from the station’s flat…maybe even Mycroft—”

            “Mycroft?” John shook his head with a laugh. “Sherlock won’t like that. We tried it before once, you know. Stayed there for Christmas and ended with a bomb under the tree…no, we won’t be staying with _Mycroft_ tonight.”

            “John…you and Sherlock won’t be staying anywhere. I mean just you. Just you’ll be at Mycroft’s.” The car came to a light, green fading to yellow—the cab lurched forward, not soon enough—then a dark, electronic red against the darkening sky. “John…Sherlock’s dead.”

            The light flickered to green and the car again lurched forward. _Dead._ That didn’t mean a thing. People died all the time. A flash of pain ran up his leg—John squeezed his hand into a fist. “No,” he said quietly.

            “John…you saw him jump.”

            The car rounded the corner. The pain flashed again—white, burning, familiar—and again John squeezed his fingers. He ground his teeth. “No.” A cab across the street skidded to a halt. “No.” Another streetlight turned from red to green, another lurch, another flash of pain. _No._

            His door opened. The cab had parked outside Speedy’s. _Home._ Golden lettering blinked in the orange sun. _How odd,_ John thought. _It was just noon._ He stepped out—Lestrade offered a hand, which he ignored—and made his way to the door. _Baker Street._

            John fumbled in his coat pocket for the key—Sherlock usually did this—before Lestrade put his hand on John’s arm to stop him.

            “John. You gave me your key after…” Lestrade paused, the silver key flashing in his open palm. “Never mind.”

            “Taking my things now, Greg?” said John with a smirk. “Never thought we’d make a crook out of you.” John took the key and shoved it into the lock. The door swung open after a _click,_ and he stepped inside.

            John frowned and gazed around the room. The parlor was bathed in a warm, red light—dust floated in a patch of murky sun, a glass-covered picture blinked sleepily on the wall. One lone, gas-lite lamp sat on the skinny table, its flame barely there. Details he had never noticed before were everywhere, messy, red, glowing. A patch of light—a car’s headlight passing by—crept from floor to stair to wall before fading from view. The door shut silently behind him.

            John turned. “You didn’t need to come in.”

            Lestrade’s eyes scanned the room before settling on John. “I wanted to. But I’ll wait for you here.”

            John turned back around and began climbing the stairs. Wood creaked, headlights passed, Lestrade remained at the bottom. At the landing, John reached for the brass knob and turned. The door swung open.

            Joh stepped into the flat. “Sherlock?” he called out, making his way inside. He heard Lestrade pacing on the floor below, the floorboards creaking under his weight. John moved into the living room. “Sherlock! I’m home, you brilliant sod—”

            Sherlock’s chair—abandoned, dusty, empty— sat unmoving before him. Spots of light crept across its surface, across the back and the stupid throw pillow and the armrest. A sudden burst of pain shot up his leg; John’s fingers smashed shut. “Sherlock?” The word flitted out in a breath. It dispersed. The chair gave no response.

            _No._ John opened his hand—pain flashed, the room blurred, his leg gave out. _No._ He fell to his knees, the chair did nothing to stop his fall. _No._ John reached forward, his fingers brushed the rough fabric. _Rain—cellphone—pavement—blood—_ the images, the memories, the nightmares flooded in, bathed in crimson—blinding pain, rage—blood running down the wet pavement, glistening, terrible—a cellphone fell from the white sky, fell with the rain, smashed below—a body lifeless, unmoving, broken—a hand, outstretched. It did not break his fall.

            John’s body shook, it trembled. Fat tears slid down his cheeks—they fell to the floor, to his hands. “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.” Spots danced in his eyes—bulging, grotesque, bright with tears. John ignored them, he let his body, whatever was left, drag itself up to somehow stand. He walked, like in a nightmare, to the mantle—his hand pulled off objects—cards, a golden cat, glass jars—until it found the skull, cool, frightening to the touch. John ripped it off—the bone smashed against the wooden floor, shattering—a scrap of paper fell into his hand.

            John stared at it, shocked, uneasy. Terrified. It was yellowing at the corners, with black ink—now smudged, from tears or time. It did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He scanned the note, once, twice. His eyes squeezed shut.

            _Tell John you_

            That was all. Three words. Three bleeding words—the _y_ was running down, streaking the white with black. Three words that could mean so much, finished, but meant so little now.

            John reached to his left and ran his hand along the bookshelf. His fingers closed around a thin, round object. John brought the pen—brilliant, crimson ink—to the paper.

            _loved him._

_I loved you. I loved you_

_please_

_do not leave me_

_I love you_

            A drop fell silently from John’s cheek _._ The letters swam together, an uncontrollable river of black and grey and red.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, please let me know what you thought and check out my other writing for this fandom (the rest is much happier, I assure you)


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